


Midnight Garden

by silentdescant



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Flowers, Gardens & Gardening, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Relationship, Unspecified Historical Setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22481065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: He who plants a garden plants happiness.In which Phil is a gardener at the palace and Dan is a reclusive prince.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 25
Kudos: 145





	Midnight Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Stefania and Nicole for the beta help! And to everyone who was excited for this fic when I talked about it on twitter, I'm sorry I took ages to edit it. But here it is, at long last. Thank you for being patient. :)

Sometimes people in town ask Phil about the reclusive prince they’ve only heard rumors about. Daniel Howell is renowned for his scathing comments to other nobles, and since he’s only rarely seen outside the palace, Phil’s friends have no other source besides the rampant gossip of the highly offended lords and ladies.

Phil tells them, repeatedly, he’s never been inside the palace, that he only works in the expansive grounds, tending to the manicured gardens and maintaining the wildlife around the pond, and he tells them, repeatedly, that he’s only seen Prince Daniel a few times.

It’s not true, though.

He sees the prince almost every time he’s within the gated property, unless he spends his day exclusively working in the groundskeeper’s shed.

And he has been inside the palace, but that’s a secret he can never tell.

So he maintains that he’s only ever been around the outside of the imposing mansion, and that’s exciting enough to entertain most people who ask about it.

The prince is just as beautiful as his reputation suggests, with soft features and dark, curly hair, but as for his sharp sense of humor, Phil can only guess. He’s never spoken to the man, and he’s only been close enough to hear him speak a few times. In Phil’s experience, Prince Daniel never really says much at all.

Phil’s experience is rather limited, however. Once, he’d been clipping errant branches from a hedge while Daniel and a few other nobles passed him on a stroll. One of the lords gave Phil a nod of acknowledgement, but the rest of the party ignored him, continuing their conversation about a ceremony or ball or some sort of dancing event. Daniel, who had been walking at the back of the group, didn’t contribute anything other than a heavy sigh while Phil was within earshot.

Another time, he’d overheard Daniel and the queen having tea together on the patio under a large umbrella. Phil had been plucking weeds out of a nearby flowerbed and couldn’t really make out what was said, but he’d heard Daniel’s short syllables as he responded to his mother’s questions without prolonging the conversation.

Phil has actually had more interactions with the queen than he has with the prince, and she doesn’t even live in this palace. She visits regularly from London, though, and she always thanks Phil personally for the bouquets he prepares for her. It’s a point of pride for Phil, that the queen recognizes him enough to comment on his work in the gardens.

Most of the time when Phil sees Daniel, it’s from afar. The prince likes to lounge on various balconies overlooking the grounds, sometimes with his entourage and sometimes alone, and Phil has long since become accustomed to his presence. At first, it was thrilling to get such a rare glimpse of the reclusive young prince, and then it was nerve-wracking, having a member of the royal family always peering down at him while he worked. For a while, Phil tried not to pay Daniel much attention; if the way he hides himself from the public is any indication, he doesn’t enjoy people’s eyes on him. But that didn’t last.

He’s simply too captivating to ignore. Phil’s gaze is drawn to him, even when the prince is just a smudge of curly hair in the distance, bent over a book in the shade of a tree. Sometimes Daniel sunbathes, too, with his tanned skin on display, and Phil can’t possibly look away.

Phil has been granted enough opportunities to stare at the man from across a garden that he now cobbles together vividly realistic fantasies of sweeping the prince into his arms and kissing him breathless.

He spends his day sneaking looks at whatever expensive fabric Daniel is wearing and imagining how it would feel under his hands if he were to touch Daniel’s arm, his shoulder, his waist, his thighs. Phil imagines how soft Daniel’s bare skin would be too, but only when he’s home in the privacy of his own bed, where his red-flushed cheeks and panting breaths and aching lust are all hidden away.

The first time Phil went inside the palace, it was with the security of Daniel not even being there. He’d been visiting the king in London, doing his royal princely duties and probably being very scathing and sour, if the rumors of his attitude during public court appearances were accurate.

Phil had simply walked into the main hall, carrying a fresh bouquet of flowers even though none of the royal family was due back for a number of days, and made his way up two flights of grand stairs to where he knew Daniel’s suite was located in the back corner of the palace. The prince’s bedroom view overlooked the lake, and Phil used that as his guide, though it wasn’t actually a difficult set of rooms to find.

He’d stumbled upon a lounge area with plush, comfortable-looking couches, and beyond it was a nook with a small table and chairs, perhaps for tea or breakfast. A door beyond that led to an opulent bathroom, complete with a massive claw-footed soaking tub and a long counter of jewelry, displayed on little velvet stands. There were rings and necklaces and pins and other things Phil couldn’t even fathom wearing, shining gold and silver and inset with colorful gemstones.

Phil had never seen Daniel wearing anything more lavish than a set of gold earrings or a simple pendant against his breastbone, but it certainly wasn’t due to lack of options. He hadn’t touched any of the expensive jewelry, though he was sorely tempted by the sparkle of it—he’d been too paranoid about nudging something out of place or leaving dirty smudges against the clean, polished surfaces.

Phil had continued wandering the suite and peeked into an impressive closet, and again had been too afraid to feed his fantasies by touching the delicate fabrics with his dirt-stained hands. He’d found a huge room with a perfectly made bed on one side and various distinct activity zones filling the free space. There was a white grand piano near the window, polished to the point that it almost looked like a mirror for the sky outside, and an easel in one corner, currently void of a canvas, and a few differently sized tables. One had two straight-backed, wooden chairs tucked underneath, and another had a cushy armchair and a chaise lounge. There were a number of bookshelves, filled to capacity, and a series of paintings along one wall.

Phil hadn’t dared to touch anything at the time, but he did go to the window to look out at the view, to see what the prince could see of Phil working in the field beneath him. The grounds looked even more impressive from this angle, bright green stretching out until it hit the carefully groomed edge of the lake. Phil was proud of his work in the gardens, but he could understand why the prince chose this view for his bedroom instead. It was quiet and peaceful, the horizon broken only by trees on the opposite side of the lake, rather than the riot of colors and gravel pathways that cluttered the view from the front of the palace.

He’d gone home that evening dreaming of kissing Prince Daniel against the ivory and gold of his soaking tub, all of Daniel’s smooth skin flushed pink with warm steam rising around him and the fresh scent of soap overpowering his senses.

It had taken Phil months to pluck up the courage to sneak into the palace again. The prince didn’t leave very often, so his opportunities were limited at first—until he’d eventually grown bold and began climbing the trellis up to the prince’s balcony during dinner time.

Now it’s almost a weekly occurrence for Phil to hoist himself up over the railing with a bouquet of colorful flowers bursting out of a bag slung over his shoulder. He slips into Daniel’s bedroom and removes last week’s wilting flowers, replaces them with fresh ones, and soaks in the atmosphere of the prince’s private chambers for a few stolen minutes before quietly making his way back down to the ground.

He times his adventures perfectly, waiting well after the butler calls Daniel in for dinner, waiting long enough for him to go down to the dining area and settle in to his meal, to be sure he won’t suddenly appear back in his bedroom while Phil is inside. He doesn’t know what Daniel thinks about the mysteriously appearing flowers—he assumes changing them usually falls under the duties of the maids, and perhaps that’s what Daniel assumes as well—but he knows they are appreciated.

A few weeks after Phil began this practice of leaving Daniel flowers, he’d noticed a half-finished painting set up on the easel of one of the bouquets. He’d stared at the painting in wonder for far too many minutes before continuing on with his task. That painting was never completed, but there were other sketches on loose paper, other streaks of paint against a sloppily covered canvas, other flowers flattened and dried and lying between the pages of a book. He knows the flowers are appreciated.

For this week’s bouquet, he chooses carefully from his garden. The prince has been in a violent mood lately, surprised by a visit from his mother and a fight with one of his friends. Phil had heard Daniel shouting a few days ago, had seen the lord storm out of the front entrance, and Daniel had been shut up in his room almost constantly since that moment.

The queen is here now, though, and while her presence has made Daniel even more moody and taciturn, at least she forces him to attend regular meals, which finally gives Phil his opportunity to bring Daniel a bit of cheer.

He picks purples and pinks and more green than usual, with only a few spots of yellow, and he avoids his standard red. He wants Daniel to feel calm looking at this bouquet. There’s probably a professional florist who could convey the right sort of meaning, but Phil doesn’t know what the flowers mean in high society. He doesn’t particularly care. He just knows how to care for them and what they make him feel, and what he hopes Daniel will feel as well.

Phil climbs up onto the balcony and finds the doors already open, the soft evening breeze ruffling the curtains inside. The room…

The room is in disarray. Phil’s never seen it like this before. It’s clear he’s refused the maid’s entry, because the bed is unmade, the comforter has fallen halfway to the floor, there are clothes strewn across the rug and one of the chairs, books are stacked in a haphazard pile on top of the piano, and drawing utensils are scattered across two tabletops.

The vase where Phil usually leaves his flowers is empty and the old bouquet is nowhere to be seen. There are only a few stray, dried petals and leaves littering the pages of an open book.

It’s a diary, Phil notices when he draws closer. There’s a heavy pen resting in the crease between the pages, and the writing inside is smudged and scratchy, covering one page completely and the second about a quarter of the way down.

Phil drops the bouquet into the vase and fluffs it up, turning the shorter flowers out so they’re visible amongst the longer stems, and though he really does try to avoid looking at the open diary, the word “garden” catches his eye. It would be intrusive to read what Daniel was writing in this book, he knows, but his curiosity gets the better of him. He just wants to know what this one sentence says. He needs to know what Daniel thinks of the garden.

_I haven’t ventured out to the grounds in five days—I need to renew my memory of the scent of nature and the sight of the gardener’s hands tending flowers so carefully._

Phil forces his eyes up and takes a quick step back from the table to resist reading more.

The prince has written about Phil’s hands.

***

Dan’s mother sends him back to his room with her scolding still ringing in his ears. He’s flushed with shame and anger and would like nothing better than to retreat into his private space and never come out again. She’d mentioned she’ll be leaving in the morning, and Dan plans to sleep in rather than see her off—that is, if he can get any sleep at all tonight.

He trudges up the stairs already pulling at the buttons of his shirt, half-undressed by the time he reaches his bedroom. He leaves his clothes were they fall and throws himself onto the chaise where he can feel the breeze and see the lake through the window.

He should go out there, to the balcony at least, to breathe in the scent of fresh grass and feel the heat of the evening sun on his skin. He doesn’t.

He lies on the chaise until the sun sets and the breeze turns frigid, and he can’t bring himself to move even to drag a blanket over his half-naked body. He doesn’t sleep a wink.

In the morning, his butler, Peter, knocks on the door and says that the queen requests his presence at breakfast. Dan doesn’t answer and Peter doesn’t enter to force the issue. A little while later, a much softer knock lets him know that food has been dropped off from the kitchen. The muffled footsteps that brought the meal quickly retreat.

It takes Dan another hour to pull himself off the lounge and wrap a blanket around his shoulders like a cape so he’s at least decent if any of the help are in his sitting room, but thankfully the suite is empty and Dan can wheel the cart into his bedroom in peace.

He takes off the cloche and carries the plate over to his drawing table, pushing aside his journal for now. It’s been a couple of days since he last poured his heart out into the pages—he just can’t bring himself to write when his mother is visiting—and he should let it leech some of the turbulent emotions that have kept him isolated from the rest of the world. Maybe then he could face a trip out to the grounds.

It’s then that Dan notices a fresh bouquet literally right in front of his face. He blinks a few times, studying it like it’s a mirage.

It can’t be from the maids. They haven’t set foot in his bedroom in a week and a half, scared off by Dan’s shouting and pacing and the angry piano melodies he knows are audible throughout the palace. Besides, they wouldn’t simply bring flowers without at least making up the bed and changing the sheets, or picking up the laundry covering the floor.

It must’ve appeared while Dan was at dinner, which rules out Peter and most of the staff, as they were busy waiting on the queen and her vitriolic son. Who would bother bringing him fresh flowers when he’s been in such a state, snapping at the few people who have dared interact with him?

A knock at the door startles Dan from his thoughts. “Sir, your mother is departing, if you’d like to say goodbye.”

Again, Dan doesn’t answer. He can no longer pretend he’s asleep, as he’s clearly fetched the cart of food from the other room, but he knows Peter won’t ask more than once. Sure enough, his steps retreat after only a moment of waiting, and Dan breathes out a sigh of relief. He feels lighter knowing that his mother is leaving, even though none of the issues that plague him have been resolved.

He finishes his breakfast with renewed energy that carries him just far enough to exchange his blanket-cape for a dressing gown, knotted at the waist, and a pair of slippers. The gardener tends to the flowers in the front of the palace most mornings, and Dan wants to catch him at work there, pulling up weeds or whatever it is that gets his long fingers so streaked with dirt. Dan rarely ventures out of his room so underdressed, but the craving to see the gardener’s fair skin kissed by the sun is too much for him to resist.

The gravel under his feet feels strange through the slippers. Not sharp enough to hurt, but uneven and shifting, and uncomfortable enough to make him extremely aware of his own body and his position in the world. He’s outside, and he’s walking, and there’s sun warming his back, and the flowers are pungent, and there are bees buzzing and birds chirping and he’s _outside_, he’s in the _world_.

The gardener is facing away from Dan, clipping branches off a hedge, pruning it to a perfect, rounded shape. He doesn’t turn when Dan approaches. He never does. He thinks Dan doesn’t want to be bothered. Dan desperately wants to hear the man’s voice, just once. Just so he knows.

His clothes are loose and comfortable, dingy from repeated wear even though they’re not currently dirty, and his dark hair takes on a reddish tint at the crown, where the sun beats down on him every day. His forearms are strong and tapered to delicate wrists and Dan just… stares. He watches the man work for several minutes, and the gardener must be aware of his presence, but he never turns around.

Dan feels like crying, paralyzed by indecision and etiquette. He sighs and turns back the way he came. He’ll pour his longing for those gentle hands into his diary and hopefully when sleep finally claims him, he’ll dream of the gardener’s hands on his body.

***

As much as Phil wants to lust over the glimpse of Prince Daniel in a dressing gown, revealing for the first time his long, shapely legs, the sight wasn’t actually all that enticing. The more Phil thinks about that moment when he saw Daniel out of the corner of his eye, the sadder he gets. The prince didn’t look well; there were dark bags under his eyes, his greasy hair was standing up at odd angles, and his shoulders were hunched in a way Phil had never seen them before. And that’s not to mention the fact that the prince ventured outside less than half dressed.

Perhaps he’s been ill and that’s why he’s stayed in his bedroom. But Phil hasn’t heard any of the maids gossiping about a doctor, and the kitchen staff haven’t mentioned any unusual dietary restrictions. Not that Phil has been probing them for information, but… well, he has. All they’ve said is that the prince is awake at all hours of the night and that he won’t talk to anyone, even his butler.

Besides the queen, whose appearance was not exactly welcome, if the servants are to be believed, none of Daniel’s friends have visited. He hasn’t had any social interaction in almost two weeks, which is unheard of for a member of the royal family.

Phil wants to bring him a fresh bouquet of flowers—well, he really wants to cheer Daniel up for real, but he can only do so much—but Daniel doesn’t eat in the dining room. One of the kitchen girls, a lovely young lady who’s a bit timid at the best of times, says that she’s been taking his meals up to his bedroom on a cart and fetching the dirty dishes the following day, all without even being allowed entry into the room.

So Phil concocts a plan to visit Daniel in the wee hours of the morning, between the middle of the night and pre-dawn when most of the palace should be asleep. Hopefully Dan will be asleep too.

He puts together a bouquet of roses in a rainbow of colors and waits for his moment. In the dead of night, he steps quietly through the grounds, walking on the grass so the gravel doesn’t crunch beneath his shoes, and climbs the trellis slower than he’s ever climbed before, wincing at every creak of the boards.

In a stroke of luck, the door and most of the windows on Daniel’s balcony are open. The lights are off and there’s no noise from within. Phil pads into the room, tip-toeing from shadow to shadow, picking his way through the clutter on the floor.

The flowers from a few days ago have been pressed—Phil can see several stems poking out of a short stack of books beside the empty vase. He carefully fills the vase with the fresh roses and glances over his shoulder to the bed to make sure Daniel is asleep.

Except the prince is not on the bed. He’s on the chaise lounge, wearing an unbuttoned shirt and only a pair of underwear on his bottom half, clutching a tasseled throw pillow to his chest. He is asleep, his features smooth and peaceful in the moonlight.

Phil moves closer to the chaise, drawn in as if pulled by a magnet. He can hear Daniel breathing deeply. His bare legs are bent at the knee so he can fit on the furniture without his feet hanging off the end. Phil drinks in the sight of Daniel’s uncovered skin, the creamy, white thighs and stomach that he’s only dreamed about.

He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be seeing the prince like this, unaware and exposed and _vulnerable_. The realization hits him like a slap to the face and Phil actually stumbles backward a half step in his revulsion at himself. He’s gone too far, spying and sneaking around, and he needs to stop.

***

As suddenly as Dan’s depressive mood hit him, it disappears, replaced by white-hot anger and desperation. He throws a few clothes into a suitcase and calls for Peter to arrange transport to London so he can see his father. He gathers his journal and a novel from his bookshelf, one with a purple pansy pressed between its pages.

He’d realized a couple of months ago that instead of letting the beautiful bouquets shrivel and fall apart, he could preserve the flowers and keep them forever. The pansy is from a few weeks ago, before Dan was forced to confront his mess of obligations, and he hopes it’ll give him strength if he takes it with him. He hopes it will make him remember the gardener’s careful hands and not the violence of his own as he ripped his clothes and threw his books across his room in anger.

He needs to stop having a tantrum, according to his mother. He’s an adult and he’s royalty and he should damn well act like it.

Well, he’ll go right to his father’s court and _politely_ argue his case, following every protocol that’s been drilled into him since he was an infant.

Dan stops in his tracks at the sight of a fresh bouquet of colorful roses sitting placidly in the vase on his drawing table.

How did they get there? Is he imagining them?

He hasn’t left the room since yesterday, and they definitely weren’t here yesterday, because Dan had spent all afternoon at that table, pressing the pink and purple bouquet before the petals could wilt.

Dan reaches out and touches one of the flowers. They’re white and peach and pink and purple and the deepest, darkest red, and the petals are velvety and soft, and…

Someone was in his room while he was sleeping. Someone saw him passed out from exhaustion, half naked and disgusting. Someone _saw_ him, and they still left him flowers. He wants to cry. Again.

But he’s done enough of that, and there’s no time for it this morning. He plucks a white rose from the bouquet and carries it with him into the sitting room, where Peter is waiting. The man is impeccably dressed with not a hair out of place, as always, putting Dan to shame, as always, and his gaze flicks down to the flower in Dan’s hand but he doesn’t mention it.

“Ready to go, sir?”

“Yes. Peter, let’s make it a quick trip. I don’t want to be in the city for longer than a day.”

“Of course, sir. Shall I have your rooms cleaned while you’re away?”

From Peter’s tone, his question is more of a firm suggestion, so Dan nods. “Don’t disturb the books or the flowers, but everything else is fine. Thank you.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll inform the housekeepers.”

***

The palace is bustling with activity when Phil arrives on the grounds and one of the maids tells him it’s because the prince is about to leave with no warning.

“What?” he asks. “Leave where? Why?”

“London, I think. I don’t know why. He just told Peter to make arrangements this morning to leave as soon as possible.”

Cold fear grips Phil by the throat. “Is he coming back?”

The girl shrugs and pushes past him. “I’m sure he won’t be gone long, but I don’t know when he’ll be back. We were told to clean his rooms quickly, though, so—excuse me, I have to go.”

“Yes, of course, sorry. Thank you.” Phil circles around the palace to see if he can catch a glimpse of Daniel on his balcony, but the prince must be preparing to leave; he doesn’t pass by any of the windows in Phil’s view.

Phil gathers a few gardening tools so he can look like he’s working, then hikes back to the front gate so perhaps he can see Daniel leave. He’s too late, though, by only a few minutes, as the gate is closing by the time he gets there.

He throws his trowel into the grass in frustration and kicks the stone barrier. His mind is spinning with possibilities. Maybe Daniel saw him sneaking out early this morning. Maybe Phil’s made him uncomfortable with the flowers. Maybe Phil’s scared him. Maybe the prince is running away, back to live with his family in London. Maybe he’ll never return. Maybe it’s Phil’s fault.

He spends the day trying to distract himself with tedious tasks, tending the plants by the edge of the lake, cutting the grass in the field. Even from this distance, he can see the prince’s bedroom is full of people and he can vividly imagine them poking through Daniel’s things, putting the room to rights. They’re touching all of his clothes, his sheets, his pillows. They’re putting away all of the books and sketches. They’re dusting the piano and the shelves and taking away the empty drinking glasses and soiled napkins.

Phil knows this is all normal. He knows the past two weeks of Daniel refusing entry to his staff were unusual, and that all of these people regularly touch Daniel’s private things. They normally have the privilege of seeing him at meals and interacting with him in the hallways. They’re normally allowed to move and clean the items Daniel holds dear.

Phil tamps down on the inexplicable surge of protectiveness, as if no one else should see Daniel’s room the way he saw it last night, because _of course_ the maids should see it like that. It’s literally their job to clean up Daniel’s messes. Perhaps they’re even used to seeing that much clutter every day.

He just doesn’t think that’s the case. Something tells him this episode of reclusiveness was unusual and private, and Phil wants to keep Daniel’s secrets safe, even from the people who see him every day. Because Daniel didn’t trust them. He didn’t let them in during this period of illness or whatever it was that kept him locked away. He didn’t want to be seen.

Phil saw him anyway. He saw Daniel out in the garden, looking like death, and he saw Daniel sleeping deeply, recovering from this time. He’s broken the prince’s trust more than any of the maids ever have, and Daniel doesn’t even know it.

Phil spends two full days in a state of high anxiety and frustration, angry at himself and treating the prince’s absence like a punishment, and soaking up every bit of gossip he can find. He doesn’t know for sure where the prince has been until news comes that he’s on his way back, and then the palace is in a frenzy again to prepare for his arrival.

Prince Daniel was having an audience with the king about some urgent matter, whatever had been plaguing him the past two weeks, and had no desire to spend any additional time with his family. Phil hears that the queen is saddened by this, but he doesn’t particularly care. The queen comes to visit Daniel all the time anyway; it’s not like she _never_ sees her son, as she so dramatically complains. Or perhaps the queen’s attitude was an exaggeration from the staff.

There’s no word on what Daniel spoke to his father about, and there’s no word on whether his issue was resolved, so the staff have no idea what sort of mood he’ll be in when he returns. Phil hopes it’s a charitable one, considering all of the rules Phil’s broken. He can at least argue his good intentions, if Daniel is in a state to listen.

He lingers near the front entrance to the palace to see Daniel arrive. It’s surprisingly without fanfare.

The driver opens Daniel’s door. The butler greets him. A steward unloads a single small suitcase. Daniel’s gaze immediately finds Phil’s from across the courtyard.

Phil is frozen in place. He’s made eye contact with the prince before, but it’s never felt this intense. It’s never felt like Daniel was really _seeing_ him.

The prince is holding a white rose.

The flower is a little worse for wear, and Phil knows, he just _knows_ it’s one of the roses he delivered two nights ago.

He took it with him to London? Phil supposes that makes sense, if Daniel discovered the flowers that morning as he was about to leave and wanted to enjoy them while they were fresh. But then he kept it? He brought it back?

Phil watches Daniel’s eyelashes flutter as he glances down at the rose in his hand, then Daniel looks up and meets Phil’s eyes again. They stare at each other for what can only be a few seconds, but to Phil the time stretches on for years. He’s so captivated by the rich golden brown of Daniel’s eyes that he’s barely aware of the butler speaking, updating Daniel on the state of the palace and inviting him to come inside for a meal.

Daniel takes a deep breath and nods, and finally rips his gaze away from Phil. He follows his butler up the steps and disappears from view, and only then does Phil let the tension flow out of his limbs. He feels like a puppet whose strings have been cut and actually drops to his knees for a moment to recover his breath behind a hedge and out of sight.

Daniel knows he’s the one leaving flowers, Phil’s sure of it, but the prince didn’t seem upset by it. That revelation is enough to carry Phil through the rest of the day.

***

Dan can tell the waitstaff are pleased to have him sit for meals. They’re doting on him tonight, offering his favorites for dinner and dessert, and plying him with wine. Peter brings him several messages that Dan’s been ignoring for days, and he’s in a good enough mood to listen, if not respond to them.

He gives Peter only the minimum amount of information about his trip, only that he’s satisfied and ready to return to a normal routine. He pointedly does not respond to Peter’s hints about inviting friends around, and Peter takes the brush-off with grace, smoothly changing the conversation to a list of solitary activities that would get Dan out of his suite.

“I’d like to take lunch out by the lake tomorrow,” Dan says. “Alone, for now, but I do need to get some fresh air.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, sir,” Peter says with an air of smugness. He’s always right; Dan doesn’t know why he gloats so much. “I’ll have the kitchen prepare a picnic.”

He doesn’t feel like talking to anyone but Peter, so he retreats to his room quickly after dinner. He’s relieved to find the pressed flowers undisturbed, and the bouquet of roses still intact. Dan gazes at it for a long moment, idly trailing the petals of the white rose against his cheeks and lips, reveling in the softness. The rose has been his companion and his comfort for the past two days, and it’s easy to lose himself in its touch.

But he hasn’t cared for it properly, and it deserves better. He slots the white rose back into its colorful bouquet and tops up the water from a pitcher left by the housekeeper. There’s a plate of chocolates by the vase and Dan takes one, feeling better than he has in weeks.

His suitcase has been put away and his clothes taken to be laundered, and his journal and novel both rest on his bedside table. Dan fetches them and brings them back to the drawing table, where he props the novel open so he can see the pressed purple pansy, and he can touch the rose petals while he thinks of what to write.

It’s hard to think of anything other than the gardener’s big, blue eyes staring right back at him as he arrived this afternoon. The man is just as striking as Dan remembered, just as captivating as he always is when Dan sees him on his walks. He doodles on the page, loopy little flowers, childlike and easy, and eventually some words come to him.

They’re nothing he’d ever say aloud. Nothing particularly interesting. The words filling this page in his journal are all devoted to the gardener and his fair skin and dark hair, his blue eyes and strong hands, the tension in his forearms and the broadness of his shoulders, the length of his legs and the looseness of the clothes that he wears, the glistening sweat Dan sometimes sees at his temples, the dirt under his fingernails and smudging across a cheek where he’s tried to wipe the sweat away, the long fingers that so firmly wield his tools, or so tenderly hold a flower.

Dan leaves the journal open when he finishes and stands up, leaning over the table to bury his face in the bouquet. It smells amazing, and the velvety petals caress his cheek with the softness of a lover. Dan purses his lips and brushes a kiss to the flowers, and goes to bed with these sensual thoughts filling his mind.

The sheets are fresh and cool and the bed is familiar and comfortable, and in the darkness, Dan imagines the gardener lying beside him.

***

Phil receives no reprimand, no subtle threat, no acknowledgement from any of his superiors, and he concludes that the prince has not told anyone about the flowers. He goes about his morning with a strange buoyance, smiling to himself like a loon and floating through his required tasks.

And then he sees a couple of the kitchen stewards he’s familiar with carrying things across the lawn towards the lake. Phil picks up his pace and trots along beside them.

“What’s this about, then?” he asks.

“The prince is having a picnic,” the youngest of the lot answers. “We were instructed to set up lunch by the water, so we’ve got blankets and pillows and the lot for his royal arse to sit on.”

The other steward tsks at the boy’s language. Before dread can overtake him, Phil asks, “Is he hosting guests?”

“It’s just his royal highness today,” the older steward replies. “Probably best you keep your distance. The prince has been mercurial lately, and I’m not sure he’d take kindly to being interrupted.”

“Of course, sir, thank you.” Phil departs with a nod and lets them continue their work of setting up a cozy little picnic for the prince. They lay out a blanket and a few small pillows, and the boy sets up a tray with cutlery and a wine glass. The older man arranges the basket of food and opens a bottle of wine, then nestles it into an ice bucket.

It appears the stewards will be leaving the prince alone. Perhaps Phil can make himself useful nearby, just in case he needs anything. 

The prince arrives about fifteen minutes later, carrying a book and nothing else, walking alone across the grass. Phil has found nearby tree that needs pruning, only a short distance away from the lake, and he tries to look as focused as he can while still paying close attention to the prince as the man sits in his nest of luxury.

Daniel pours himself some wine and reads his book and nibbles on a sandwich, and he tries to be subtle about glancing Phil’s way every few minutes. Phil hopes he’s not an annoyance. The prince hasn’t shouted at him to leave, at least.

Pruning a tree can only take so long, though, and eventually Phil has nothing to do but walk around the curve of the lake and head back to the gardens. His path takes him right by the picnic.

“Excuse me, sir,” the prince calls to him once they’ve crossed paths.

Phil turns back eagerly. “There’s no need to call me sir, your royal highness. How can I assist you?”

Daniel smiles. It’s a lopsided grin, more of a smirk than anything, and Phil is immediately taken by it. “Tell me your name, if you don’t wish me to call you sir.”

“It’s just that I don’t deserve the title. I’m just—I’m Phil, your royal—your—sir. My name is Philip. Phil.”

“Phil,” Daniel repeats. He holds Phil’s name in his mouth like it’s something sweet and beautiful. After a moment of silence that stretches like taffy between them, he continues in a surprisingly soft tone, “I appreciate your work here, Phil. The grounds are stunning, as they always are, and I know it’s down to you. I hope you...”

“You hope I what, sir?” Phil asks, blushing at such direct praise.

He sees Daniel swallow, sees his fingers clench and unclench around cover of his book. “I hope you weren’t put off by my behavior, and that you’ll continue… working… here.”

“Your behavior? Sir, I… I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. You’ve been nothing but pleasant. Of course I’ll continue my work here, as long as you allow it.”

Daniel laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Pleasant?” he asks. “I haven’t been pleasant in years, Phil, it’s no great secret. You won’t offend me by saying so.” He takes a long sip of his wine and looks out over the sparkling lake.

“I feel like we’re having two different conversations, sir,” Phil admits quietly. “If anything, I should apologize to _you_ for my behavior of late.”

As soon as the words pass Phil’s lips, the prince’s head snaps up and he meets Phil’s gaze intensely. “Please don’t. Don’t apologize, Phil.”

“You know what I’ve—”

“Was it you?”

The desperation in Daniel’s tone astounds Phil. The prince looks younger than Phil’s ever seen him, his eyes wide and watery, lips parted in a beautifully sad pout. Phil can’t bring himself to say the words aloud, so he nods his head and waits.

The wateriness in Daniel’s eyes gathers into a single tear that drops halfway down his cheek, but to Phil’s utter surprise, Daniel smiles up at him and says, “They’re lovely. Thank you, Phil.”

“Uh… you’re welcome? Sir. You’re welcome. I’ll, uh. I’ll leave you to your… book. Good day, sir.”

Phil makes it halfway across the field before he dares turn to look over his shoulder. He finds the prince nestled into his pile of pillows, looking out over the lake with the book resting against his chest. It’s a beautiful scene, and he has conflicting emotions about being allowed to witness it, and he thinks he should be as far away from here as possible while he sorts himself out.

Of course, Phil only manages to restrain himself for one more day before he’s once again sneaking up the trellis into the prince’s bedroom with fresh flowers in his bag.

The roses from before are still in good shape, but Phil wants to deliver a new bouquet anyway, just for the thrill of doing this with the prince’s knowledge. He chooses the pre-dawn morning again, because he feels almost like he’s been granted permission, and he wants to steal every moment he can of Daniel in such a peaceful state.

The prince is once again asleep on the chaise, this time with his lower half covered by a blanket and his chest bare. He’s propped against a few pillows and there’s a book splayed open on the floor beside him; it’s likely he fell asleep while reading.

Phil quickly tip-toes past him to the small table and finds the stack of books with pressed flowers in the same position it had been in before Daniel went on his trip to London. He must’ve instructed the maids not to move it, because everything else in the bedroom has been returned to its impeccably clean and tidy state. The bedclothes are unrumpled and the rest of the books are put away, and there are no more tripping hazards strewn across the floor.

Phil leaves the roses where they are and simply adds a few more flowers to the already colorful bouquet. He’s cut a few asters for Daniel and they look like bright fireworks nestled amongst the roses. He hopes Daniel will like them.

There are sketches beneath the vase, different angles of the roses, drawn in pencil and hastily shaded, and Phil squints at them to make out the detail in the low light. And then, as he nudges the paper around, he finds the prince’s diary, once again left out with its contents exposed.

There’s another drawing inside the diary on the left page, the stem of a rose drawn in detail, stretching up the side of the page, with an impressive rendering of the rose itself at the top. There are words clustered around the drawing, squished in to fit on the page, and though Phil is resolved to not read them, he can’t help but notice his own name in the text.

_The gardener told me his name is Phil_, the diary states quite plainly about a quarter of the way down the page. Phil should stop reading there. But he doesn’t.

_His gaze is as blue and clear as the cloudless sky was today, and after he left me I gazed up at it and felt the blue surrounding me and I imagined losing myself in his eyes. I wanted so badly to touch his cheeks when they flushed. I wanted to kiss the warmth from his skin. I know what his voice sounds like now, and I can hear it in my head, and I’m blushing too at the things I imagine him saying to me. I wonder what made him blush today._

_I hope it was me._

_ <strike>I hope it was my</strike> _

_ <strike>I want him to</strike> _

_ <strike>I need him</strike> _

The breath is stolen from Phil’s lungs. He gapes at the scribbled words on the page and hurriedly looks back at Daniel, relieved to find him still deeply asleep. Phil’s cheeks are burning with shock and… and lust, and even picturing Daniel sitting at this table, writing these words as he gazed upon the flowers Phil left for him… It’s too much. Phil can’t handle the cloying scent of the flowers paired with that mental image. He’s too warm even in the chilled room and he yanks open half of the buttons on his shirt just to get enough air to breathe.

Prince Daniel is asleep _right there_ and Phil is nearly overcome by his desire for the man.

He has to let Daniel know that his feelings are returned. He finds a spare piece of paper and writes carefully. He doesn’t have Daniel’s poetic way with words, but his script is neat and tidy and it conveys the truth Phil can’t stop thinking about:

_You are so beautiful in the moonlight_.

Before he makes his hasty retreat, Phil leans down over the prince and breathes in the sweet scent of him. He has to know. He just…

He lays a gentle kiss to the thick curls atop Daniel’s head and lets himself feel the softness of his hair with his lips and nothing else.

And then he makes his escape into the night.

***

Peter informs Dan at breakfast that David will be coming to call in the afternoon. Dan glares at him but Peter remains unruffled.

“He mentioned making an apology, so I presumed you would deign to receive him,” Peter says, so pointedly that Dan can practically hear the threat of reprimand if he doesn’t obey.

“Fine,” he snaps. “But I don’t want him sticking around for a meal. I don’t want to socialize today any more than necessary. I’ll be taking a walk around the grounds.”

“Of course, sir. I would suggest a coat as I expect it will rain soon.”

“Pfft.”

“Sir—”

“I’ll wear a damn coat, alright?”

An hour later, Dan is finished with his meal and suitably bundled into a light raincoat that he’s still not convinced he needs. The sky looks lovely and blue, and the birds are singing, and Phil is tending to the flowers.

Dan approaches him carefully, but he can’t help the little bounce in his step. “Good morning, Phil,” he says brightly.

“Hello, sir,” Phil replies, turning around to face him. He’s even more beautiful today than he was yesterday. Confidence suits him. “You seem rather cheerful today,” he says.

“As do you,” Dan replies. “I want to enjoy my morning before a man comes to ruin it all this afternoon. Would you walk with me?”

Phil nods, but his expression pinches at the mention of David. “Are you so sure your afternoon will be ruined?”

Instead of answering the question, Dan asks, “Do you remember the people who used to visit all the time? The lords and ladies and what-have-you?”

“Of course, sir. You spent a lot of time out on the grounds with them.”

“One of them got very angry with me,” Dan says. “And he says he’s come to apologize, but I’ve been keeping secrets, and when he learns the truth, I don’t think he’ll be very happy with me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” Phil says, his brow creased in polite confusion.

It’s clear Phil doesn’t understand. Dan doesn’t want him to, anyway. He wants to put David and Clara out of his mind. He’d rather think about the flowers he found this morning when he woke up, and the note placed atop his drawings.

“Do you make a habit of staying up late, Phil? I think you put even me to shame, and I’m known for staying up at all hours of the night.”

“It’s more a matter of waking up early,” Phil replies hesitantly. “There are... certain jobs that need doing.”

“Indeed. You do them well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

They walk in companionable silence around a curve in the pathway, approaching a small fountain. Dan drags his fingertips along the stone rim.

“Do you know what my favorite color is, Phil?”

“No, sir,” Phil answers. He’s smiling now, eager for this scrap of information.

Dan grins back at him and teases, “You’re not going to like it.”

“Am I not?”

“I don’t think we have any flowers this color.”

“I bet I could prove you wrong. Sir.”

Dan touches his lips to hide his smile. “My favorite color is black. But in absence of black flowers… I love the white roses.”

Phil cocks his head to the side as he listens. “Tell me why?”

The question makes Dan pause for a moment to gather his thoughts. He dips his fingers into the fountain and flicks the water off, then moves to a hedge and gently strokes a few of the leaves, all so he doesn’t have to face Phil’s scrutiny.

“They’re just so pure, aren’t they?” he finally says. “They’re untouched by the chaos of life.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Phil says, and suddenly he’s standing at Dan’s shoulder, almost close enough for their bodies to touch. Phil reaches around Dan and plucks a tiny, budding flower from the hedge. He hands it to Dan and says, “All of nature includes a bit of chaos, I think. No matter how much I tend to them, there’s never a perfect flower. But I think that variety makes them beautiful. Same with color, in my opinion. So many of these colors are beautiful to me. It’s part of why I love working with plants.”

Dan swallows. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask what else Phil thinks is beautiful—why he finds Dan beautiful when his scale for beauty is so heavily weighted by color and life, and Dan has neither. Instead, he turns around so they’re almost nose to nose—they’re of a similar height, which is thrilling and unique—and he says softly, “You bring color to my life, Phil.”

“Should I not? If you don’t prefer it.”

“No, I—I want it. I need it, I think. Or else I’d never try anything new. I’d be… cold and dark and alone forever.”

Phil’s gaze drops down to Dan’s lips, just for a second, and then he meets Dan’s eyes again and whispers, “You’re none of those things.”

Dan licks his lips. He can almost taste Phil on them. And yet, he can’t stop himself from saying, “I am, though. I’m not even as perfect as your flowers. I’m antisocial and rude and selfish and—”

“Haven’t you been listening? You’re beautiful because you’re not perfect. Do you really think that about yourself?”

“I’m not as mean as everyone says,” Dan admits. “I do try to be nice.”

“No one says you’re mean,” Phil assures him. Dan is almost positive it’s a lie.

“I’m terribly awkward, I’m sorry. I’ve ruined the moment with my—my issues, and—”

“Daniel—”

“Please call me Dan.”

“I mean, uh, sir. Forgive me.”

“_Please_, Phil.”

Phil stares at him for a moment. They’re no longer close enough to kiss, but Dan doesn’t even want that now. He wants Phil to touch him, to hold him, to say his name like he’s a real person and not a doll dressed up and propped upright for a party.

“Dan,” Phil breathes.

“Say it again.”

“_Dan_.”

Dan feels like he’s breaking apart inside. His entire body surges forward on a sharp inhale and Phil’s arms come up around him, carefully held just short of touching him.

“Will you hold me, Phil, please?”

Phil’s strong hands make contact immediately once given permission. He wraps Dan in his arms and Dan sinks against Phil’s firm, broad chest, exhaling his relief with a full body shudder.

“Are you okay?” Phil whispers into his hair.

“No. But this helps.”

“Can I visit you tonight?”

“Yes, please.”

Phil squeezes him close and they breathe together, and for all that Dan feels grounded in this moment, his mind soars above him as if on a cloud.

***

The prince—Daniel—_Dan_ goes back inside when the rain starts, rushing across the gravel pathway until he reaches the door. He never did think to pull the hood of his coat up over his head.

Phil doesn’t have a rain coat, but it doesn’t really matter. He has to walk back home and change anyway; he’s a mess from kneeling in the dirt early this morning, and he doesn’t want to track mud into the prince’s bedroom when he visits later.

_When he visits later_. Because he’s been given permission, now. Secret permission. Consent, at least. He’s been asked, actually. He’s been called to the crown prince’s bedroom tonight.

To talk, of course, but… probably to do other things as well.

Phil spins around in a circle, his arms spread wide, laughing into the rain. He held the prince in his arms and kissed his hair in the middle of the garden, and he wants to do that and more tonight, in the privacy of Dan’s bedroom.

He’s giddy with anticipation and hope, and he laughs to himself the whole way home.

***

Dan is still drying off when David arrives, looking similarly disheveled by the rain. Peter announces his presence and quickly excuses himself, leaving Dan and David to stare at each other from across the sitting room.

Dan doesn’t use this room much, himself. It’s where he hosts guests, and where he’s invited David for years. Part of his suite, but not quite his inner sanctum. Looking at David now, in this room full of impersonal tables and chairs, Dan wonders how he ever considered David an intimate friend.

“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” David says with a formal bow of his head. “I came to apologize for my behavior last we met.”

“No need to stand on ceremony, David. I expect we have a lot to say to each other.”

“We do. Daniel, I apologize for the things I said that day. I spoke out of anger, and I wasn’t listening to you. I was hurt by something you had no control over, and it blinded me to how you felt about it. I know now that you were hurt by it too.”

“I was.”

“I know that you spoke to your father.”

“I did.”

“Will you tell me what happened?”

Dan sighs and sinks into an armchair. David takes a chair of his own, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and an earnest expression on his face.

“Thank you for your apology,” Dan murmurs. “I didn’t react well to the news myself and I know I could’ve… handled it better, when I told you.”

“Of your _betrothal to my girlfriend_, yeah. It could’ve been handled more delicately,” David scoffed. He’s smiling, though, so the anger must be past.

“You understand it wasn’t my choice, don’t you?” Dan asks. “My father didn’t even deliver the message in person. I had it read to me by my butler at the breakfast table. I was in denial for two weeks before it even sunk in, and then I was… I don’t know. Dismissive. I didn’t think about how it would hurt you, because… because you didn’t understand.”

A look of confusion crosses David’s face. “What didn’t I understand?”

“I wasn’t stealing your love,” Dan insists. “But you didn’t know that, did you?”

“I mean… I figured you didn’t love her yet, but that changes over time in arranged marriages, doesn’t it? I felt replaced, of course I did.”

Dan looks down at his knees, at a damp spot on his trousers. He feels damp and cold all over. “I didn’t take the betrothal seriously because I… I could never love her. Do you understand?”

David shrugs and shakes his head slightly.

“I don’t love Clara and I never will. I mean I… I don’t… I don’t love _women_, David. I never have, and I never will.”

“You…”

“Yeah.”

A long moment of silence passes while David digests this information, his eyes wide with shock. Finally, he takes a breath and tilts his head to the side and asks, “What did you tell your father?”

Dan looks up and meets David’s eyes. “That I’ll never want to marry. I might have to, eventually, but. We’ll see how long my father’s disinterest in me lasts, I suppose.”

“You’re the one who secluded yourself from his court, Daniel,” David points out. “The fact he even listened to you is—”

“I didn’t tell him the whole truth, just that I didn’t want to marry Clara, and that I’ll likely never want to marry. He made his own assumptions. Maybe they’re correct, maybe not, but for now I’m just glad he didn’t care to ask questions. I’ll go as far as I can on my own, away from my family, without forcing a confrontation.”

David understands immediately, leaning even further forward and giving Dan an intense stare. “You’ve fallen in love with someone, haven’t you? And you want to be with him?”

“I’m not going to talk about anyone but you and Clara right now,” Dan insists. His non-answer is enough to confirm it, and David’s expression softens considerably. “I hope you marry her, David. It’s clear you feel strongly about her, and I’m sorry I almost ruined it.”

“Thank you for saying that, Daniel.”

“I’m not really in a mood to socialize today,” Dan adds.

David’s been his friend for long enough that he stands up without question. “Of course. I hope we can have a little get-together soon, though. I plan to propose and I’ll want all my best boys to celebrate with me.”

Dan nods and gives David a weak smile as he sees himself out. The moment Dan is alone in the room, he melts into a puddle in the chair, exhausted from the conversation. He could probably just sit here all evening, becoming one with the cushions, if not for the prospect of Phil visiting him tonight after dark.

He pushes himself to his feet and heads for the bath, hoping a long soak in hot water will restore the warmth to his body.

***

Phil doesn’t wait very long to climb up onto Dan’s balcony, only just past dusk, once night has fully fallen. The doors are open for him, curtains billowing in the chilly breeze. Inside, Dan has left a light on near his bed, which casts long shadows over the rest of the room.

He looks around nervously, not hearing any movement, and finds the prince dozing on the chaise, where he always naps. He goes to Dan and traces a curl on his forehead with his finger, and Dan’s eyelids flutter open.

“Do you never sleep in your actual bed?” Phil asks quietly.

“I was waiting for you,” Dan replies, sitting up smoothly to make space for Phil beside him. There’s a pink crease on his cheek from the throw pillow, and he’s wearing his dressing gown tied loosely around his waist, leaving a good expanse of his chest exposed. “I don’t normally fall asleep so early.”

Thinking back to how anxious Dan was earlier in the day, Phil asks, “Was your day ruined, then?”

Dan shakes his head. “Not anymore. I was just tired. It’s been a long… day. Month. But it’s better now. You’re here now.”

“I’ve been here all month. For a few months, actually,” Phil points out. “I know it’s not my place, but will you tell me—”

“Not now,” Dan says quickly. “I don’t want to think about it right now.”

Phil, prone to overthinking and worrying himself into a state of panic, doubts that avoiding problems will do much to solve them, but the prince is determined to change the topic. Phil follows his lead, holding his hand close to Dan’s face.

“Can I touch you?”

“I’ve dreamed of this,” Dan admits, his voice so soft and full of wonder. “This exact moment. Your hands… Yes, please touch me, Phil.”

Phil lets his fingertips drag across the apple of Dan’s cheek, learning the curve of his face. Dan’s skin is soft and unblemished, and the freckles Phil knows are there are invisible at the moment. He wishes it were day, that he could drink in the sight of Dan sun-kissed and golden.

“I’ve dreamed of this too,” Phil says. “How you would feel. You’re so…” _vulnerable_, he thinks privately. “You’re not like this with your friends.”

“No.”

“Everyone says you’re sharp and brash and—”

“Mean?”

“No, not that, just… But you’re really not, are you?”

“No. Not when I’m myself.”

Phil licks his lips and cups Dan’s cheek. Their faces are close and he’s aching to taste Dan. “Are you showing me your true self?” He feels Dan nod. “You hardly know me. I don’t know why you even noticed me. I’m just a gardener. We’ve never even spoken before the other day.”

“Probably the same reason you give me flowers.”

Phil shakes his head before Dan even finishes the sentence. “You’re the _crown prince_,” he says. “Everyone notices you.”

“But no one _knows_ me.”

“Neither do I.”

Dan turns his head, pulling out of Phil’s grasp, and takes long strides over to the table. “You’ve always known what I needed,” he says, rifling through the pile of loose papers until he finds his journal. “Shall I read it to you?”

“You shouldn’t—”

Dan flips to a page near the beginning of the book. “‘I saw the gardener watching me at the window. David talked incessantly of Clara’s beauty and all I could think was how the gardener was more captivating than any of the ladies could ever be.’ And two days later, I wrote again, ‘I directed the group into the gardens for a stroll, if only to catch a glimpse of the man that preoccupies me constantly. He was not working today and I was so disappointed that I lashed out at Andrew. David disapproved of my cheek. Of course all of them are too frightened to cross me, but I could tell.’

“Honestly, I can’t say that I ever enjoyed the walks through the grounds with those men, except as an excuse to see you, Phil. Does this satisfy you? Does it prove how much you’ve affected me, before we even met? Or should I continue? I spent days writing about you. There’s no shortage of material.”

Phil can’t breathe for a moment, thinking about how long Dan has been watching him, all while Phil’s been lusting after him too. “Dan—”

“And here,” Dan says, dropping the journal without a care and moving to his easel. “I was grateful for the flowers, different every week, and I got it in my head that I should capture them the way they’ve captured me, and I painted every day, Phil, I haven’t dedicated myself to an activity like that in years, but I kept trying, because they were so beautiful, and I didn’t even know at the time that you’d brought them for me. Look, here—”

Dan shuffles through canvases, none of them finished, all of them colorful, holding them out toward Phil like offerings. Phil has seen them in the light and he knows they’re beautiful.

“You never finished them?”

“I get… frustrated with myself,” Dan admits. “When it doesn’t come out as I want it to, when it looks messy or imperfect, or… I just give up.”

Phil gets to his feet and takes the paintings from Dan, gently setting them aside. He takes Dan’s face in both his hands and squeezes his cheeks very lightly. “It’s okay if it’s not perfect. I don’t expect anything in this world to be perfect, and neither should you.”

“You’re perfect,” Dan murmurs.

Phil breathes a chuckle, because Dan doesn’t know him at all if he thinks Phil is perfect. He shakes his head. “No, I’m not. I’ve done so many things wrong. So many things I’m ashamed of. But I just try to learn from my mistakes and try again.”

“I’m expected to be perfect,” Dan tells him. “And I’m not, not even close, and it drives me absolutely mad, thinking of all the ways I don’t measure up to the expectations of my family and my position. I’ll never be the perfect prince they want me to be, and it…”

“It what?”

“It scares me,” Dan says, “to think that one day I might be king. I’m not fit for that responsibility. I just want to… I just want to be left alone.”

Phil hums. He doesn’t know how he fits into what Dan wants, but it’s clear that he fits somehow. Perhaps it doesn’t even matter. He can be whatever Dan needs him to be.

“I know now how it feels to be held by someone who cares for me, thanks to you,” Dan whispers. “I want to know how it feels to be kissed by someone who cares for me.”

Phil doesn’t need to be told twice. He leans in and presses his lips to Dan’s, fitting them together perfectly. Dan takes a step forward and wraps his arms around Phil’s back, pulling him in until their chests are firmly touching, and Phil can feel the heat of Dan through the thin fabric of his shirt. He drops one hand from Dan’s face and pulls at the collar of his dressing gown until his fingertips meet smooth skin and Dan’s shoulder is exposed.

Dan’s lips are soft and full and he responds beautifully to every turn of Phil’s head and touch of his tongue. Phil thinks that maybe Dan has never been kissed before, by anyone, because Dan seems desperate for it, his fingers digging into Phil’s back, clawing at him in his urgency.

Phil pulls back just enough to take a breath of the air moistened by their body heat and asks, “Have you ever been with a man?”

Dan shakes his head. “Only in my dreams of you.”

“Have you ever been with a woman?”

Dan shakes his head again. “It wouldn’t be… proper,” he says, “for someone in my position. I was never interested anyway, and I couldn’t very well try without making a reputation for myself.”

It’s astonishing to Phil that Dan, with all of his privilege as an aristocrat, has not had the opportunity to explore his own desires.

“Have you?” Dan asks.

“I learned what I like—who I like—and then I found you,” Phil replies simply. “And I’ve dreamed of you for months. Wanting you.” He strokes Dan’s shoulder, dipping his hand beneath the dressing gown so he can press his palm to Dan’s bare chest. “Wanting to touch you. Taste you.”

Dan sighs heavily, sinking forward against Phil’s body, and his full, flushed lips curve into a smile.

“Tell me what you dreamed of,” Phil whispers.

“Your hands,” Dan answers breathily. His eyes are closed and Phil feels him shiver. “Mostly your hands, holding me. Touching my body. Stroking me.”

Phil does as Dan describes, dragging his palm down until he can cup Dan’s waist. The knot of the dressing gown’s silky belt falls apart and the sides of the garment spread open, revealing Dan’s body to him. He keeps pushing, following the curve of Dan’s waist around to the dip in his spine. He holds Dan there and tugs, pulling Dan’s hips forward to connect with his own.

“I imagined your lips on my neck. And your eyes taking in every part of me.”

“Can I?”

“Yes,” Dan replies simply. He steps back, out of Phil’s reach, and shrugs the dressing gown off his shoulders. It puddles around his bare feet, leaving him fully naked and half cast in shadow. Half of his body is pale in the moonlight, and his outline is etched in gold from his bedside light across the room.

Phil lets his gaze slide down, tracing every exposed curve and angle, lingering at Dan’s hard cock.

“Can I see you?” Dan asks.

Phil hurries to comply, stretching his loose linen shirt over his head and quickly unbuttoning his trousers. It takes him a moment to disentangle himself from his shoes and pants, but finally he stands naked before Dan, exposed to the same careful scrutiny.

Their bodies are similar in that they’re of the same height and they’re both slender, but the difference in their skin tone is obvious even in the dim light, and Phil has more muscle definition in his shoulders and chest from working outside every day. Dan is not as soft as he expected, though: his torso is lean and his forearms are toned and strong.

Dan reaches for him, his long, elegant fingers stretching to close the distance. Phil meets him halfway with a mirrored pose. Dan’s hands are bigger than Phil’s, which surprises him.

“I’ve dreamed about the texture of your hands,” Dan says. “How rough they would be. How gentle.”

Phil doesn’t think his hands are particularly rough, but compared to Dan’s soft palms and the lack of calluses on his fingers, he supposes it’s true. He laces their fingers together and pulls Dan back to the chaise.

Dan takes his time exploring Phil’s body, following the curve of every muscle with his fingertips, and then with his lips. Phil, spread out on the cushions beneath him, aches to do the same.

“Can I take you to bed, Dan?” he asks. “Let me bring your dreams to life.”

Dan responds eagerly and they trip over each other on their way across the room, distracted by touching and kissing with every step. Dan yanks the thick comforter down to the foot of the bed, exposing the pristine sheets. He climbs up without preamble and settles back into a nest of pillows, then holds out his arms, beckoning Phil to join him.

Even naked and freshly washed, Phil feels like he’s soiling the bedclothes with his presence. He’s never touched a bed as comfortable as this one; the mattress gives under his weight and bounces back, and the sheets beneath his knees don’t bunch and wrinkle awkwardly. They’re pulled tight across the bed and they feel so luxurious to his touch that he wants to melt into them.

He barely keeps from falling on top of Dan, catching himself at the last moment by a hand shoved into the pile of pillows, and Dan laughs softly.

“Tell me what you want,” Phil says.

“Touch me. Everywhere.”

***

Caged by Phil’s strong arms, Dan exhales an excited, shuddering breath. He’s surrounded by Phil, by the scent of him and the bulk of his body, and it’s intoxicating. Phil’s fingertips caress him lightly enough to tickle and it makes him laugh and squirm, and then Phil’s touch hardens, and Dan lets out a low moan of appreciation.

Phil takes his time tracing every inch of Dan’s body, squeezing and stroking and holding, and Dan can’t possibly slow his racing heart by the end of it. He lies against the pillows, helpless, as Phil steals his breath and pins him down, and it’s so much better than Dan imagined it would be, to be overwhelmed like this, to be taken, to let it happen.

He encourages Phil with unintelligible noises that Phil seems to understand, and when Phil finally grasps his cock and strokes him to completion, Dan feels all of his physical and mental strength leave him in the space of a single breath.

He’s vaguely aware of Phil moving atop him, of Phil’s voice in his ear, Phil’s lips and his teeth brushing against the side of his neck, and he should be taking this in, he should be cataloguing every moment, but he just can’t.

Dan gropes down between their bodies and fumbles for a good angle to help Phil chase his orgasm, but his fingers are weak and uncoordinated, and his brain can barely manage to give coherent instructions anyway.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dan breathes. “Please, I need… I want to touch you, I just… I need a moment, please, I want… I want to see.”

Phil sits up, straddling Dan’s thighs, and gives him space to breathe fresh air and come back to his senses. From this angle, Dan can see the way he holds his erection much more clearly, and his gaze sticks to the idle motion of Phil’s hand. Dan can’t look away. He licks his lips and stares as Phil strokes himself, taking in the wondrous sight of Phil so unashamed but flushed with arousal, pink and beautiful in the soft light.

Dan struggles to sit up as well, fighting his body’s exhaustion but driven by curiosity and desire. He reaches for Phil and Phil’s hand falls away, exposing his cock fully for Dan to look and touch. Dan grasps it gently and laughs at his own surprise that it feels like his own erection. Of course it does, it’s the same body part. There are differences, of course, and Dan is fascinated by them, intently lists them in his mind to fuel his fantasies later.

Phil is thicker than Dan, just slightly, and of course the angle is backwards from what Dan is used to. Phil’s cock feels right in his hand the way his own does, but it’s just new enough to make him vividly aware of every difference. He traces the throbbing veins with his thumb, mapping them and memorizing the exact texture of Phil’s skin. He rubs his finger around the glistening crown and this is different too; Phil’s cock is so much wetter than his own when he’s aroused.

Before Dan can second-guess himself, he brings his finger to his lips. The taste is subtly different too. Dan’s never bothered tasting his own come, but now he’s curious how different that will be as well.

“Dan…” Phil groans, drawing Dan’s attention again.

“What?”

“You’re so lovely like this,” he says. “Beautiful.” Both of his fists are clenched tight around handfuls of bedsheet. “I’m close, Dan.”

Dan takes the hint and resumes stroking Phil, less careful now that he’s explored a bit. He can sense Phil’s urgency and adopts it himself; he’s desperate for Phil to reach his climax in a way he never expected to be. Dan’s never had a lover, but he always thought that sex would be rather selfish in practice, with each person chasing their own sensations and desires.

In reality, it’s so different. He feels what Phil feels. He feels the excitement and anticipation, and he feels the throbbing need for completion, and he feels the breathlessness. His own body is responding to Phil’s progress, and though he’s already come, he feels the precipice of Phil’s release as if it were his own.

He watches Phil’s face as he climaxes, immediately surging forward to swallow all of Phil’s sounds, sealing their mouths together even as Phil shudders and melts.

They tumble down to the bed together, Phil holding Dan loosely in his arms. Dan’s hands explore as if they have a mind of their own; he absently recognizes the sticky, wet sensation of come smearing against skin, the slickness of sweat, the heat of arousal as it slowly dissipates. And through it all, they kiss, tasting each other’s breath and developing a language Dan never knew existed before now.

Dan feels _known_ by Phil in a way that he’s never experienced with anyone else. He wonders if it will always be like this. He wonders if Phil feels the same way. Dan thinks he does.

“I always thought you were unattainable,” Phil murmurs when their mouths part. They settle against the pillows drowsily and stare at each other. “You were a fantasy.”

“I’m real,” Dan assures him.

“Coming in here and seeing you with all of your belongings, all of your art and your writing… I kept you secret, like you would be safe from all of the intrusive people who wouldn’t understand, as long as I held onto what I learned of you.”

“What did you learn?”

“That you are talented, and creative, and kind. And that you were sad, and lonely, and all I wanted to do was help. I wanted to be the one to comfort you.”

Phil’s voice has taken on a low, lilting quality that Dan thinks means he’s about to fall asleep. Dan is tired too, mentally and physically, but he’s hanging on Phil’s every word.

“You did comfort me, Phil. Even if I didn’t know it was you at the time,” he says.

“I learned what flowers you like,” Phil says.

“You did.”

“I never want to stop learning about you.”

Dan’s heart swells with emotion. Phil’s eyes are closed and his breaths have slowed to an even rhythm. Dan leans forward to close the distance between their noses, brushing them together in a soft, grateful caress, and tilts his head to lay one more tender kiss to Phil’s parted lips. It doesn’t wake him—it wasn’t meant to—and Dan falls asleep then with a smile on his face.

_fin_.


End file.
